


Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

by RedFive



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, Domestic Fluff, Insomnia, Insomnia is the worst, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9354470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFive/pseuds/RedFive
Summary: Hannibal attempts to do something nice for Will for Christmas. Will is determined to be his usual moody and miserable self. NYC Fannibal holiday exchange gift for TheyArePackHunters/@awritersrejections.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheyArePackHunters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyArePackHunters/gifts).



> Written for my NYC Fannibal Secret Snowflake - the wonderful @awritersrejections!

“You look terrible, Will,” Hannibal says and Will imagines there is a softness to his voice that cannot possibly be real. _He is paid to be nice to you_ , Will reminds himself and retreats behind the paper walls of his mental fortress.

“I didn’t sleep,” he answers and misses the days when his biggest complaint was that he just didn’t sleep well.

Hannibal stares at him. His face is hard, unreadable, and lacks the warmth Will thinks he sees sometimes. It’s confusing, this tale of two Hannibals. He can't tell which is the real one and which is the pretender. ' _Why does it even matter? You’ll be dead in a year at the rate Jack is working you unless the Ripper gets to you first._ ’

“How long has it been since you slept?”

“Long enough.” Will checks his watch. His hour is up and not a moment too soon. Time to make his escape if Hannibal will let him. “I’ve got to go. Jack has a cold case he wants me to look into tomorrow.”

“You don’t do cold cases. Is there another excuse you wish to give me? Perhaps tonight is the night you usually wash your hair? Hmm?”

Will blinks and scratches the back of his neck. The phrasing is flirtatious and sharp like something out of a romcom. The other Hannibal has made his appearance and his presence weakens Will’s resolve to leave. If only Will could nail one of them down to the floor so he would always know where find **that** Hannibal. It would take a lot of a guesswork and out of this doctor-patient-friend- **whatever** relationship. 

“I'm not blowing you off. Jack thinks it might be connected to the latest Ripper murders.”

If Hannibal buys the excuse he doesn't show it, but the large clock in his office backs up Will’s story by chiming half past the hour.

Will stands but does not leave. It’s easy to linger, and Will is too tired fight his natural inclinations. He needs Hannibal to dismiss him, but Hannibal remains in his chair.

“I wish you would stay, Will. I’d like to hear about the case.”

 _Ding, ding, ding. Warning. Warning. Danger, Will Robinson Graham._ He has caught psychiatrist with his hand in the cookie jar. Hannibal isn’t interested in the case. He doesn’t want Will to stay. He wants to evaluate his patient before Will heads off into the field. Hannibal is being a good soldier by following Jack’s orders like all the rest. The realization makes Will’s heart tighten. “I really need to go.

Hannibal knows he is beaten and looks away because he does not want Will to notice, but it’s not enough. Will can still see it in his profile in the way his chin tilts slightly upwards suggesting annoyance. “You really should take better care of yourself.”

Will could just leave, but he knows he’ll keep engaging as long as Hannibal let's him. He is like a top that doesn't know when to stop spinning. “If I do then more bodies will drop. This is the only way I can get the job done.”

Hannibal’s tone turns brittle. “You will sleep when you are dead in other words.” 

The coarse words rub Will's skin in the wrong direction. Lovesick as he is, Will doesn't carry himself well when Hannibal is rough with him. A lack of confidence does not mean Will is in unencumbered by pride. “So others don’t have to!”  Will fires back.  Why can't Hannibal just be proud of him? Everyone else is. It’s a **good** thing he’s doing with the FBI.

“That is a terrible way to live, Will,” Hannibal's head turns a quarter inch to the left and levels him with some serious side-eye.

But eyes are easy to avoid. Will turns his towards the ground. “My hour is up, Doctor Lecter.”

“As I’ve said many times, you are not my patient. Sit. Please,” he says and gestures to Will’s empty chair.

With a weary sigh, Will throws himself back into the deep leather chair. There is no use fighting with iron.

“Is it the nightmares again?” Hannibal asks.

“Sometimes, but I think my circadian rhythms are the primary culprit. They’re a mess right now. I have an easier time sleeping during the day, but at night,” Will shakes his head, “it feels like my mind is on fire.”

“That is a common side effect of long distance travel. I could prescribe you some medication to help you sleep.”

“No, that’s okay. I want to be lucid if Jack calls.”

“You worry too much about Jack,” Hannibal says and scribbles something in his notebook.

“I really need to go if you want me to get any sleep at all tonight. My flight leaves at 6AM.” 

“It seems unlikely that you will sleep given what you have told me, so allowing you to leave is irrelevant,”  Hannibal says, but Will must have landed a body blow with that last hit because Hannibal closes his book and lays it on the side table. “When will you be back?” he asks and rises to his feet.

Will watches Hannibal’s delicate fingers flutter over the buttons of his jacket as he closes it up and accepts Hannibal’s hand when it is offered to him. Hannibal helps Will to his feet and escorts him to the door.

“Jack has promised to have me home by Christmas. He doesn’t want to leave Bella alone this year.”

Hannibal lays his hand on Will’s shoulder and folds his fingers around the curve of the bone. “Come to my house then. I assume you have no other plans for the holiday.”

“Too broken for Christmas parties, Doctor Lecter?” he says and instantly regrets his word choice having asked Alana the same thing not too long ago.

“You are not broken, Will,” Hannibal assures him, which only makes Will feel worse. Either history really is cyclical or Alana and Hannibal have been gossiping about him over dinner. “But you are lazy, dear boy, and the holidays are inherently something of a fuss. Besides, I will not take “no” for an answer.”

…

Hannibal has been uncharacteristically reserved with the exterior of his house. Will wasn’t expecting to find inflatable reindeer on the front lawn, but he did expect something more. The only outdoor decoration at all is a simple pine wreath, which hangs off the mailbox.

Will’s host greets him at the door and welcomes him inside. Will hands him his coat and the bottle of wine he’s brought for their dinner.

“The presentation is darling, Will. I apologize for calling you lazy earlier,” Hannibal says as he flicks the bell, which is tied tightly around the neck of the bottle. “The sprig of pine is fresh. Cut from one of the trees on your property I presume?” 

Will nods. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Nonsense. It is lovely.” 

Will doesn’t see it. The bottle, now that it is in Hannibal’s hands, looks cheap and cheesy compared to the opulence of his home.  

Hannibal wants to give Will the grand tour. Will just wants to skip ahead to the part where they sit down to eat. He’s familiar with the flow of those events: where to sit, how long to hold eye contact, and what topics they’ll likely talk about etc. But they’ll do it Hannibal’s way. They always do.

The entrance table where a small antler tree usually sits year round has been taken away and replaced with an eight foot evergreen. Antlers and eagle feathers stick out from it at all angles. It is nightmarish and beautiful in a way that only Hannibal can pull off, and it only gets worse from there. “Fuss” is the wrong word to describe Christmas at Hannibal Lecter’s house. “Overly Dramatic Clusterfuss” would be more accurate. There are enough candles to officially be a fire hazard, and where there are no candles, every available surface is buried beneath fresh pine boughs. Small carvings of wolves are placed between the branches. Each one is finished in a cherry stain and carries a small golden package in its mouth. Will is certain those packages are gilded in real gold too.  

“Do you like it?” Hannibal asks.

“It’s very you,” Will says still staring at the wolf pack.

“The dogs are new. I bought them because I thought of you. Please, take one before you leave.”

“And break up the set?”

Hannibal smiles revealing his own canines. “I can always buy more.”

Will looks again at his bottle of wine and its little bell. “Of course you can,” he says miserably. 

...

Dinner is a pig, one whole pig for two people. Its sad eyes look at Will the entire time beneath an amber glaze that tastes both sweet and salty like saltwater taffy. With its mouth parted, it looks like it is trying to speak. Will can’t imagine what it could be saying as Hannibal cuts pieces from its back, and that’s probably a good thing. His imagination has not been a very happy place lately.

In typical Hannibal fashion, Hannibal plates only two bites at a time giving the most tender parts to Will.

“I know why you’re so skinny. You burn more calories than you consume just getting the meat to the plate,” Will says and stabs at an asparagus spear with his fork. 

Hannibal coughs mid-swallow, and quickly covers his mouth with a napkin.

“Is the wine that bad?” 

Hannibal folds the napkin and pushes it away from his plate. “There is nothing wrong with the wine. I merely bit off more than I could chew. Be careful you do not do the same, Will.” The twinkle in his eye suggests that he is laughing at a private joke.

Will looks at the small medallion of pork, which is barely larger than a quarter. “Impossible.”

“Nevertheless, it is in my nature to be concerned for you.”

“Why do you bother?” Will asks and shifts his eyes away from Hannibal’s face. It easier to stare at the red liquid in the Tiffany stemware than at his lips. Of course this trick only works until Hannibal raises his glass to drink, which forces Will's eyes back up.

“That’s funny, I asked my psychiatrist the very same thing,” Hannibal says. “I will never understand how you do that, Will.”

“Do what?”

“Pluck my words out of my head with no context. At times, it is looking into a mirror, but then I blink and that mirror has become a tennis ball with no warning at all.”

“What did she say?” he asks. It feels like begging for table scraps, but he’d rather beg than think too long on that tennis ball comparison. 

“‘I see enough of you to see the truth of you, and I like you.’”

“That’s nice of her,” Will says and can't help but wonder how **much** Hannibal’s psychiatrist likes him.

“Hah!” he huffs. “Nice? She said this after calling me a person suit in the same breath.”

“A what?” Will asks trying to force his way inside the world they share—a world Will knows nothing about. Hannibal’s word choice implies that he is annoyed by the nickname, but the bemused curve of his lips betray a fondness for it.

“Never mind that now, Will. I “bother” because you are my friend, and as my friend, I hope you will do me a favor.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“There was a time when you would not have agreed so quickly. That’s good, Will. It means you are becoming more open to new ideas and experiences. I hope you will remain as open minded when you hear my request,” Hannibal says and thumbs the stem of his wineglass.

Ominous words. Will would bet his house that he is not going to like what he hears next.

“Stay over tonight. I have many guest rooms, and you look like you have not slept in a week.” Hannibal delivers the request flatly refusing to acknowledge the magnitude of what he’s just proposed.

“No, absolutely not,” Will says and shakes his head vehemently. He can’t. He just can’t. His paranoia will not let him. Sleeping in strange beds when he is on a case is bad enough. Sleeping in a strange bed down the hall from Hannibal when he could be home, safe with his dogs and far removed from temptation, is out of the question.

“Why not? You look terrible, and I cannot allow you to drive home at this hour in such a state.” 

“I am fine,” Will insists.

“Well, I am not fine with letting you go, That’s final.” Hannibal doesn't raise his voice, but it feels like he is shouting. “Even if you do not sleep, I shall rest easier knowing that you are safe in the room beside mine. Consider this my Christmas present if that helps.”

“You don’t need your beauty sleep,” Will grumbles before he has a chance to think better of it. When Hannibal chuckles, Will realizes what he has just admitted to and his cheeks redden.

“You will stay, Will. Won’t you? Please?” Hannibal is gripping the edge of the table and leaning in. His eyes are locked on his dinner companion. There is another volley of entireties on his tongue if this does not work. It would be easier to take a bone from a starving wolf than extricate himself from this situation now that Hannibal has bit down on the idea.

“I guess I did drink a lot of wine tonight,” Will says, but it is a lie. They have had only the one bottle between them; however, the lie allows them both to save face.

Hannibal claps his hands over his plate of food. “Excellent! I hope you are still sober enough to appreciate some good scotch after dinner.”

Scotch is good. Scotch is a start. Will might survive this night if he gets absolutely lit. “How good?”

“A Macallan 25.”

Will whistles and raises his glass. “You do know the way to a man’s heart.”

Hannibal smiles as he raises his own to return the toast. There are those canines of his again, which look wet and sharp in the candlelight. “Only when they have good tastes,” he says.

_..._

They drink until they get can’t drink any more before Hannibal shows Will to the room adjacent to his own. He has long since lost his jacket, but he looks no less formal or handsome in only his waistcoat and tie. Will likes the look, likes it enough swear an oath: only bring scotch to Hannibal Lecter’s house from now on. 

“I believe you have everything you will need, but should you require anything else, come find me. I have already laid out a pair of pajamas for you.”

“When did you do that?”

“This morning. After buying the Macallan, I thought it best to be prepared rather than caught unaware.”

Will frowns. Hannibal sounds odd and less prim. He’s not exactly slurring, but he’s not as stiff as normal. “Rhyming now?”

Hannibal hides his mouth behind a fist and looks down at the ground. “Yes, I am afraid I do that when I am drunk.”

Will chuckles. “That is very odd drunk tell.”  And cute in its own way.

Hannibal coughs clearly not enjoying being made fun of by his patient. “We are two very odd people. Would you not agree?”

Will shrugs and pops the door open, but Hannibal suddenly grabs his elbow and pulls him away from it. Will bounces of Hannibal’s chest then settles back against his broad body. Hannibal places his other hand on Will’s hip and leans into him.

Will is sure that his heart has stopped beating. Hannibal is holding him, actually holding him, like a lover would. It doesn't feel real, and yet, it feels entirely too real at the same time.

“Would it bother you if I stayed up and played the harpsichord for a little while?” Hannibal asks. His breath tickles the back of Will’s neck and carries strong notes of scotch and caramel to Will’s lips.

 _‘Is this another drunk tell too?’_ Hannibal can’t possibly mean these advances.

Will shakes his head. “No, you know I won’t sleep.”

“I know. I hope you are comfortable here at least.”

‘ _How could I possibly be comfortable like this?’_ Will thinks. But Will knows he could be comfortable like this--knows he could be **very** comfortable and never have to worry about sleep with Hannibal Lecter in his bed. There would be other things to keep him occupied. 

Hannibal releases Will’s arm and abruptly takes two steps back. “I am sorry, Will. Allow me to bid you goodnight.”

Will looks over his shoulder. Hannibal’s cheeks are red, but that too could be the alcohol. It’s a disappointing end but not unexpected. Why would Hannibal put a move on **_him?_**  Will was his patient and meal ticket for Christ’s sake. “Goodnight, Doctor Lecter.”

 Hannibal bows at the waist before withdrawing.

_‘Yeah...he’s definitely hammered.’_

  _..._

The overhead lights go on automatically when Will enters the room. They are preset to allow only enough light to see where all the furniture is. It creates a soft, warm feeling—like the glow from a fireplace without all the hassle. The scent of woodsmoke and pine is in the air too. Will sees the outline of more pine boughs decorating the room, but the woodsmoke is a mystery. He can’t tell how Hannibal is doing it. There are no candles in the room and no fireplace. Some scented oil beneath the pine boughs perhaps?

He walks over to the bed and finds the pajamas Hannibal has leant him. They are a matched set because of course they are. They belong to Hannibal. What else would they be? But they are also flannel, which is a surprise. Will lays his fingertips on the fabric. It is the the softest material he has ever touched.  “Probably the most expensive flannel on earth,” Will mutters.  

There is embroidery on one of the breast pockets. Will traces it with his index finger expecting to feel the raised letters H & L, but there is only one letter on the pocket and it is a W. Will snatches his hand away and feels burned. A cog begins to whirl inside Will’s troubled mind. Hannibal has….bought him pajamas now?

He paces back and forth at the foot of the bed sorting through the pieces of evidence he has gathered. The entire evening feels premeditated. The flannel, the scotch, the pine trees, the wood smoke, and they all add up to one thing: Hannibal is trying to make this room feel like Wolf Trap. Will checks to see if his aftershave is even in the bathroom. It’s not, but honestly, Will is relieved by that. He needs just one thing to be normal to convince himself that this is real.  Will doesn't want to wake up and realize this has all been a dream. It would explain why he doesn't sleep anymore. You can’t sleep if you're already sleeping.

The sound of the harpsichord drifts up through the floorboards. Whatever song Hannibal is playing, it is slow and soulful. It is a serenade meant entirely for Will’s benefit, and he can’t stand it anymore—any of this. Will peels back the covers, jumps into bed still fully dressed, and pulls the blankets over his head to drown out the music. But Hannibal’s lullaby pierces the thick bedsheets and slowly coaxes Will’s head out from under them.

 _‘Why is Hannibal being so nice to me?’_ No one has EVER been so kind before, and then there is that goodnight to consider….

Will sits back up and looks at the pajamas. This feels like a courtship.

‘ _But he’s paid to--’_ Paid to **what** exactly? To celebrate the holidays with a patient? To ply him with alcohol and buy him expensive sleepwear? Jack definitely isn’t paying Hannibal to do that.

Will gets out of bed and undresses. He slips into the pajama bottoms, but leaves the top off. Now what?

He considers walking downstairs to thank the doctor for his hospitality dressed only in the flannel pants, but Hannibal has gone through a lot of trouble to set this room up. Will suspects Hannibal’s play has not yet reached an intermission, and he would be disappointed if Will did not stay put for the rest of the show. Will climbs back into bed and tries to keep his eyes open. He waits and hopes that Hannibal will come to him.

It is surprisingly hard to remain awake, but Will doesn’t want to fall asleep tonight. When the song changes, the shift in the melody winds his brain back up like a propeller. This happens two more times before something extraordinary happens. A string of white lights flicks on above the door followed by another and another. They are on some sort of rolling timer.

Will knows now what Hannibal has done and why he's done it. It is as bright as daylight in the bedroom now. Under the glow of ten thousand lights, Will can see now how the pine boughs were arranged to disguise Hannibal’s electrical project, but the real marvel sits by Will’s bed. There are more wolves in this room, seven in total. The entire pack huddles on the nightstand arranged to watch over Will while he sleeps. The conditions are perfect. Hannibal has thought of everything—even his dogs. Will is awestruck by the amount of work that went into this production all so Hannibal could give Will a decent night’s sleep for Christmas.

Will wants to get up—to run downstairs and throw his arms around Hannibal’s neck—but his body has grown very heavy. Will picks up one of the wolves and curls his fingers around the figure as he lays back down. Before the next song has even started, Will is fast asleep and untroubled by bad dreams for the first time in a long while.

 


End file.
